The Structure of His Spontaneity
by starofoberon
Summary: Follow-up to Home Demonstration. Reid entertains Morgan and introduces him to his personal forms of entertainment. Reid's POV
1. Chapter 1

**Disclosure**: Nope, they aren't mine and Lord knows I make no profit off them -- except for the psychic satisfaction and amusement of pushing them into new and uncomfortable roles.

**A/N #1:** Turns out that writing stuff from Reid's POV is strange. Illuminating, occasionally amusing, but … strange. I'm not sure I would want to live in his head on a regular basis.

**A/N #2**: I wanted to avoid dragging this out into chapters, but the holidays have fractured time around here so dramatically that I'll have to fall back on a drop-and-insert narrative. Hope nobody minds.

**The Structure of His Spontaneity**

As an exceptionally intelligent and well-educated person, Spencer Reid knew that what he was doing at this juncture in his personal life was possibly bone-deep stupid and potentially career suicide. (And that was a significant part of the thrill, of course.)

For almost four years, he had kept his interest and participation in the Dom/sub culture carefully walled off from his fellow profilers at the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit.

He had not feared their disapproval or shock. Rather, his motive had been to avoid the inevitable (_duh_) behavioral analysis of his preferences, the frowns and nods and, _It's a response to the brutal bullying he endured as a child prodigy-blah-de-blah-de-fuckin'-blah,_ or whatever the interpretation of the week might be.

The kind of attitude that dismissed "Jeez, dudes, I do this because I like to do this. Live with it!" as a steaming heap of denial on toast points.

It had never been his intention to involve any of his teammates in this other area of his life – and not the least because when you came right down to it, all that successful Dom/sub amounted to was, um, _profiling_. It was fast, accurate profiling of what one's partner at this instant most and least wanted, and determining in which proportions to dish out those desires and terrors for maximum satisfaction all around.

Involving his teammates, he had figured, would be like playing Dueling Profilers with a chance of scattered orgasm.

That had been before Emily Prentiss hit a speed bump on the road to love and started ricocheting around in search of someone to take control of her, and Reid had never been able to resist closet nerds like Emily. But that was all history, since Emily now aspired to be a Top and just came to Spencer for coaching.

The current problem lay with the fact that, due to some I've-had-a-bad-week-so-don't-fuck-with-me bravura horseshit challenge he had thrown at Hotchner and Morgan a couple months back, in slightly less than an hour, when Derek Morgan arrived – _if _Derek Morgan arrived – Spencer Reid, PhD, would be officially engaged in Dom/sub relationships with three of the six people he had least intended to involve in his recreational pursuits.

And for every one of his genius-class neurons that jumped up and down and screamed Danger-Will-Robinson! another three lay back and drawled, _Damn, this is gonna be fun_.

But anyhow …

He paced his apartment one last time. He could always improvise, the way he had at Aaron Hotchner's, but a good session, like a good interrogation, benefited from careful staging. He stopped three times at the antique ladder-back chair, tilting it backwards with the arch of his right foot, making sure that it balanced -- and that it landed just right against the lip of the book shelf, at a perfect forty-two degree angle, just in case.

He folded and refolded the canvas for the evening's artistic endeavor. It was a seven-by-fifteen-foot swath of white polar fleece folded into thirds and rolled into a bolster he could easily unfurl into a makeshift mattress. Morgan's skin would glow like burnished mahogany against that background.

As he heard the growl of Morgan's car with its (unnecessarily) high-performance engine, he slipped out of his shoes and pitched them with casual accuracy from the bedroom door into his closet. He had selected a neutral mismatch for the night's socks: one gray and violet, and the other cornflower blue. He glanced down at his feet and wiggled his toes, watching their reflection in the highly polished wood of the hall, his favorite floor in the apartment.

When the elevator made that funny cough it always gave as it left the garage level, he checked his reflection in the hallway mirror. His hair was too tidy. He rumpled it a bit more. While he was at it, he tugged his tie half an inch looser and skewed it to one side.

Nice.

_It's all in the staging, my friends._

* * * * *

"You're lookin' good, man," Morgan said, by which he meant, _You're looking pretty much the way I expected you to look. _By which he probably meant,_ You haven't shaved your head and you aren't dressed all in leather._ Or maybe he meant, _You don't look like a refugee from Rocky Horror Picture Show._ Or maybe just, _Thank God you aren't in drag._

Reid, who didn't talk all that much about his sexual orientation, but who – for the record – considered himself functionally bisexual and preferentially hetero, just nodded amiably and went to get Morgan a beer.

When he returned, he twisted the cap off, handed the bottle and a glass to Morgan, and said, "Have you been thinking about that stuff I told you?"

Morgan set the glass aside and took several swallows from the bottle.

_Ugh, me Alpha Male._

"I have," he said. "And I looked it up online and I even dug through my old psych texts. So, yeah – if we have a level of trust here, then I'm willing to give it a try."

OK, maybe not so Alpha. Maybe Reid was slapping some of his own expectations on Morgan.

Reid dropped into an adjacent armchair. "Well, I hope we've built up a level of trust over the years," he said with a timid smile. He worked the knot in his tie loose and pulled it off, throwing it carelessly on the coffee table.

Morgan eyed the tie suspiciously, as if it would ultimately end up tying him to a chair. Reid ignored Morgan's doubts, because misdirection is a magician's – and a Dominant's – best friend.

"Why don't you relax, too?" he asked. He slipped off his chair and knelt down before Morgan, who shrank back slightly in his seat as though he feared Spencer might lunge forward and sink his fangs into

Derek's crotch. Reid sat back on his heels, quiet, expectant, almost subservient, sending all the wrong messages. "May I help you with your tie?" He even ducked his head once, as though hardly daring to touch Morgan in any way.

Before Reid was born, his mother and some of her faculty friends had gone to see a performance of Gounod's opera _Faust_ in which Méphistophélès had been played by a particularly charismatic basso. He still remembered the way the women, years later, described in wonder how the devil knelt humbly before Faust, and then, seemingly without moving a muscle, the singer/actor made it clear that he was the master, even though he remained on his knees.

Although the performer had died before Spencer was born, he held the image of that performance up as a goal he would like to achieve some day. And while he was a long way from meeting that goal, he had learned to make the most of kneeling.

Carefully, he reached up and picked at the knot in Derek Morgan's tie. Once he had it undone, he tugged at the end, slowly slipping it out from under Morgan's collar.

"Uh-uh," Morgan said, catching the end in his fingers. "You're up to something."

Spencer let his shoulders droop. "So much for a level of trust," he sighed. "Here." He held out his crossed wrists, inviting Morgan to tie him up. "I'm not up to anything. Go ahead, do whatever helps you feel confident."

After a few seconds' discomfort, Morgan said, "Nah, kid, that's OK." He folded his tie and put it in his back pocket.

Reid reached backwards, snagged his own tie off the table, and handed it to Morgan. Derek gave him another _you're-up-to-something _look. Spencer, who was indeed up to something, but nothing to do with neckties, sat back again, head bowed, hands folded on his thighs. Morgan's brow furrowed. It was a long moment before he folded Reid's tie and stowed it away in his pocket with his own.

Morgan cleared his throat. "So when do we--"

Reid made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "Just a few minutes," he replied. "May I help you with your shoes?"

Derek was looking more and more uncomfortable. The person he was expecting to act as a master seemed to be behaving more like a slave. "Um, OK," he said finally. He made no fuss at all as Reid removed Morgan's loafers and set them, side by side, beneath the coffee table.

_Almost too easy._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclosure**: Nope, they aren't mine and Lord knows I make no profit off them -- except for the psychic satisfaction and amusement of pushing them into new and uncomfortable places.

**A/N # 1:** I never wanted to get into a chapter kind of thing, but this will take three chapters, just because my freakin' life is so freakin' unnecessarily weird and complicated at the moment. Besides, it falls fairly neatly into three segments. From the close of this puppy onward, however, if it ain't finished, it ain't posted, and that's a promise. Probably.

**A/N # 2:** Since it seems clear that Spencer Reid and my muse aren't currently speaking to each other, Morgan is taking over the narrative, probably clear through to the end of the story.

**The Structure of His Spontaneity, Chapter 2**

"So," Reid said, collecting their empties and stashing them in the kitchenette. "Do you have it all?"

"Sure. Cape Town to stop it, Please to increase it. Don't move, don't talk, don't open your eyes--"

"Derek, I would appreciate it if you said, and I quote, 'I won't move, I won't talk ...' Will you do that for me?"

_God, you're a pissy little thing._

"Jeez, all right. I won't move, I won't talk, I won't open my eyes. Happy?"

"Getting there," Reid replied. "Fifteen minutes. Is that a commitment?"

Morgan hesitated. Part of him still thought this was a pretty stupid idea. "Yeah," he said finally. "I'm committed to fifteen minutes. I do have another question, though."

"Hit me," Reid said.

Morgan chuckled. "Man, I'm not sure that's a real smart thing to say in this kind of situation."

Reid laughed too. "Excellent point. Moving on, what's your question?"

"If what you do is all power and control, then what's the whole whips and chains thing? As a rule, we class that as sexual sadism."

"And that's what it is," Reid responded calmly. "It's a continuum. What we're doing is just an introduction to surrendering control. It can branch out anywhere from there – or not branch out at all. Role-playing, bondage, discipline, S&M, or even just straight sex that's performed in a rougher manner than is normal. There are people who jump right in to a full scene, but I prefer that the person involved and I start with the basics and expand on it as we go along. I enjoy watching an identity, a relationship, develop organically over time."

He stopped dead and indicated a straight back chair and a fuzzy white bolster. "Chair, or polar fleece?" he asked.

That was a no-brainer to Morgan. "Chair." He looked at Reid, and when Reid said nothing, he seated himself. "And you're always the Top, not the bottom?"

"Always the Top," Reid responded, then frowned and corrected himself. "Almost always the Top. Sometimes I coach people I'm already involved with in being a Top or appreciating a Top, or just exploring the idea of power. When I do that, for the first stages, they practice on me so they don't wind up doing something goofy or actually dangerous to someone who didn't know what to look for."

"And you're not a whips and chains type?"

"What gave you that idea? If both of us will enjoy it, I'm a full-service Dom. I've been doing this since, God, while I was finishing up my Chem dissertation. That's, um, wow! Eight years. How time flies. I can roll any way I need to roll."

"That's creepy, Reid."

Those gingerbread-colored eyes met Morgan's directly. "Yes," he purred, his face all confidence and predation and his body positively feline. "It certainly is. You want to put your feet flat on the floor?"

Morgan did so.

"We start now. Hands down. You surrender everything but Cape Town and Please. Nod if you understand this."

Morgan's heart thudded. Reid's voice seemed unimaginably cold. "Nod?"

Morgan nodded.

"Do not talk. Do not move. Do not open your eyes. Nod if you understand."

He nodded again, then said, "Where should my hands be?"

He sensed rather than heard Reid approach him. A finger tapped his lips sharply, one tap per syllable. "You. Do. Not. Talk. You. Nod. Or. You. Shake. Your. Head. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"Morgan!" Spencer's voice snapped like a whip. "We're having a little trouble with basic instructions tonight, aren't we?

Morgan opened his eyes and growled, "If you weren't so damn pissy--"

Reid moved toward him swiftly, as though about to knee him in the crotch. Instead, he tipped the chair backwards. After an instant of flailing, Morgan found himself uninjured save for his pride. The chair was tipped at about a 45

degree angle, the section below the nape of his neck hooked onto the lip of a book case.

"Whoa," he said, teeing the fingers of one hand into the palm of the other. "Cape Town, time out, whatever."

He tried to rock the chair forward, but Reid held it stationary with the arch of one foot. "You're fine," he said softly, in that slower, deeper voice that Morgan thought sounded so freaky. "What seems to be the problem? How hard can it be to stay still, shut up, and keep your eyes closed?"

"Problem? How about you out of nowhere shoving my chair back, could have killed me?"

Reid sighed. "Keep your arms still, please." He bent down, grasped the cross brace of the chair with one hand, and slowly lowered it so all four legs were on the carpet.

Considering that Morgan's weight must have been nearly twice Reid's, and that Reid deliberately took his time about lowering the chair, Brainiac boy was clearly stronger than Morgan (or probably anyone else) had suspected.

While Derek pondered that, Reid continued. "I warned you up front that if you failed to cooperate I would assume that you were playing a power game and I would respond appropriately." He shifted positions and crossed his arms over his chest. "It seems to me that I set out only a very few rules and expectations. When you persisted in looking around and grabbing hold of things, I took the action I promised you I would take." Reid's eyes, simultaneously calm and hard, were uncomfortable to look into.

"You really don't expect me to believe that crap about no surprises, do you?"

"I absolutely do expect you to believe it, Morgan. I won't lie to you. You're serious about this or you aren't. If you aren't, you can leave."

Derek forced himself to relax a little, but he couldn't let it go completely. That would give the win to Reid. "Ought to have references like other--" He sketched quotation marks in the air. "--'professionals.'"

"I'm not a fucking professional, Morgan. Whores are professionals. I'm a dedicated amateur. You'll have to back off on that."

"Fine. It was a metaphor. Or a figure of speech, Or something. Look, I'm sorry, man."

Reid withdrew his cell phone from his back pocket and gave it to Morgan. He lounged against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, and his arms again folded. "You want references?" he snapped. "Fine. Call Hotch. Speed dial four. He said it was OK." He rolled his eyes. "This is gonna be a long, long fifteen minutes."

"What would I call Hotch ab-- Oh, uh-oh, no, Brainiac. Tell me you haven't been doing the nasty with Hotch."

"'Doing the nasty,' huh? That certainly gives me an insight into why you're chickening out here just two minutes into your time. Haven't I been saying all along that this isn't about sex, that it's about getting yourself unwound and trusting your body?"

"Fuck." Rather than trust using Reid's speed dial, Morgan thumbed the number into the phone from memory.

_Beeps. _

_Two rings._

A familiar dark baritone. "Hotchner."

"Hey, Hotch," he said, feeling more than a little silly. "I'm at Reid's. He says--"

"Right." Hotch sounded sleepy. "So what do you want to know?"

"You've really done this? With Reid?"

"Yes. Can we get a move on here, Morgan? My patience is a little thin. I've been up almost thirty hours."

"OK." Morgan took a deep breath. "I'm serious here, man." When Hotchner said nothing else, Derek took the plunge. "Did Reid lie to you or misrepresent anything when you were--?"

"No." On Hotch's end, Morgan heard the clink of ice in a glass.

"And he said, no sex, no abuse."

Hotchner cleared his throat. "Technically, what he said was no sex, no abuse, no nothing that you don't give explicit permission for him to do," he said.

Morgan dropped his voice and turned his head, but Reid was too close. "Hey," he said, "Why don't you go get us a couple more beers for while we hash this out?"

"Sure," Reid murmured, a can't-fool-me grin twisting one side of his mouth. He straightened with eerie grace and sauntered toward his kitchenette. _Since when does he saunter?_

When he was gone, Derek whispered into the phone, "I don't want to be intrusive, but – did Reid tie you up?"

"No."

"Did he undress you?"

"No."

"He took my tie and my shoes."

A pause. "I don't think I was wearing a tie or shoes," Hotch said.

Morgan felt sweat popping out on his forehead. He was slipping precipitously into territory marked _Stuff I don't really want to know._ Another deep breath. "Well, what were you wearing, man?"

"Jesus, I don't remember. Sweatshirt, jeans, probably. I think I was barefoot. It was the night we had Szechuan at my place."

Yes, that fit. Derek seemed to recall that Hotch had been wearing a red sweatshirt that night, and at some point he'd slipped his shoes off.

"And he didn't hurt you or--"

"All I will say about details," Hotchner sighed, "is that I knew in advance everything that he would do, that he never misled me about what he was doing. He always gave me the opportunity to stop him, a basic yes-or-no choice."

"You mean like saying Cape Town."

"Well, first I had the option of indicating yes or no. Cape Town would have been for if I said yes and changed my mind, I think."

"You _think_?"

An awkward pause. "I would presume so."

"Hotch, what do you mean, you _presume so_? I thought you said that you did this with Reid. Excuse me, but is this some weird, elaborate mindfuck?"

There was a long, deep sigh. "Morgan."

"Yes, sir?"

"I never said Cape Town. I never said no, never made any attempt to stop him. And that had better address your concerns. Relax, Morgan, and enjoy the ride. Or don't. One or the other."

And Aaron Hotchner hung up.

_Crap, they're in this together. This is just way too creepy._

Reid returned with only one beer. Morgan glared suspiciously between him and the bottle. Reid threw up his free hand in apparent exasperation. "I don't like to play buzzed, Morgan, that's all. Look at it; it hasn't been opened."

Morgan considered the actual likelihood that a fellow BAU agent would drug his beer and realized it was a stupid idea. Instead, he looked up and said, "Hey, Brain Boy."

Reid raised an eyebrow.

Morgan watched the kid – _Stop it; he's no kid!_ -- carefully. "How did it go with you and Hotchner?"

Spencer Reid's dreamy smile was unsettling as hell. "Ohh, yeah," he said. "Hotch was _fun_."

That did it. Morgan's competitive gland was thoroughly engaged. If the most repressed son of a bitch Morgan had ever met outside a psych ward or an interrogation room could do this, so could he. He handed the still-unopened beer bottle back to Reid. "Let's do this. Turn the clock back to fifteen-hundred and we'll start out fresh."

"Chair or fleece?"

"Let's go with the fleece, man. Fresh start and all."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclosure**: Nope, they aren't mine and Lord knows I make no profit off them -- except for the psychic satisfaction and amusement of pushing them into new and uncomfortable places.

**The Structure of His Spontaneity. Part 3**

He was already mentally prepared to lie down on the pad of fleece when Reid touched his shoulder. "Hold on," he said. "Let's start out standing up. We'll take it gradually. Are you ready?"

_It just can't be all that goddamn tough,_ Morgan reasoned. _Fifteen minutes. That's doable, isn't it?_

"I'm ready." And he thought he probably was.

Reid closed the door to his bathroom and nudged Morgan so he stood in front of it. "Close your eyes and relax," he whispered. "You're mine now. You can't move, you can't talk, you can't look, and you can't touch me. Now nod or shake your head: Are you afraid?"

Morgan considered several reasons for answering either yes or no. Finally, he settled on No. Then he thought better of it, shook his head vigorously, and nodded Yes.

"Was that little thing with your head supposed to be an eraser?" Reid asked.

Derek nodded.

A light chuckle. "Cute."

He felt a shift in the heat pattern around him. Reid was leaning on the door jamb to his right, leaning in toward him. Morgan could still smell a little beer on his breath along with whatever citrus-y stuff he had used on his hair.

_(Note to self: Ask Reid what that crap in his hair is so I can avoid it. Smells like something you'd wash dishes in.)_

"I'm going to touch you now," he said. "Nod to let me know it's all right."

He nodded and almost immediately felt a light touch from long, slender fingers. They danced along his cheeks, his forehead, his ears, and his face. Once Morgan recovered from his knee-jerk momentary freakout that it was a guy – and Reid, in particular -- petting his face, he found the ever-shifting patterns soothing.

_That was the big question: Could he do anything even suggestive of sex with a male without thinking of Carl Buford?_

"I would like to pinch you, just a little bit," Reid whispered. Nod or shake your head."

_Hell, if Hotch can do this, anyone can_.

He nodded.

_OK, punk, this is where it all begins. Bring it, Brain-Boy. _

Slender fingers caressed his eyebrows and traced around his eye socket. The fourth time around, Reid took a bit of the skin at the outer edge of Morgan's left eyebrow and gave it a delicate pinch. Morgan stood motionless, analyzing the sensation. Neither pleasant nor unpleasant, he decided.

The fingers continued their exploration, down his cheek, across his lips, back up the other side. This time the pinch came at the inside of the right eyebrow.

Yes. That'll work.

"Please," he said quietly.

Reid seemed surprised. "You liked that?"

He nodded.

_Get used to it, Brainiac._

After a few seconds of hesitation, Reid made the rounds of his face again, this time pinching the inside of the left eyebrow. Morgan sighed as though in satisfaction. It was, in fact, all right. The pinches were small and the caressing could grow on a guy. No doubt, there was skill behind Spencer Reid's skinny fingers; he knew where all the nerve endings were.

By the time Reid graduated to scraping his nails delicately down Morgan's neck and under his shirt, Derek had said "Please" four times. When he started exploring Morgan's shoulders and neck, he reached the tipping point – he began in reality to enjoy the stimulation, and his voice when he said "Please" reflected that.

"Is this a good time to shift over to the fleece?" Reid asked softly.

Morgan nodded.

_Nope, this is nothing like Buford._

He didn't even open his eyes for the change of positions. He let Reid guide him down to the floor. When he was comfortable face-down, his head on his arms, he sensed Reid kneeling beside him.

"Relax," Reid said, his voice lower than before. "Same rules: You can't move, you can't talk, you can't touch me, you can't open your eyes." His hands moved again to that hot spot between Morgan's neck and shoulder. Now, with an improved angle, he could massage it harder.

Morgan groaned "Oh, yeah, please," and Reid was so absorbed in what he was doing that he didn't even notice the extra words. Or maybe he just didn't care by this point. The harder he drove his thumbs in, the looser the knot got. When those long, slender fingers wandered off the reservation and massaged his upper arms, Morgan positively purred. The occasional pinch just added spice to the sensation.

"I'm going to touch your feet now," Reid told him. He shifted his weight and his right shin weighed down on the backs of Morgan's legs.

Derek figured that Reid would tickle his feet, but instead he massaged them through the socks, then ran his thumbnail up from the heel to just short of his toes. Morgan yelped. His toes curled up and his foot curled to the side. Several seconds after the stimulation, his foot seemed to tingle clear up to his hip. By the time the tingling faded Reid had reverted to gentle touches again this time on the other foot.

Whew, that felt kind of nasty. He wasn't sure he could encourage Reid with that. He cracked one eye open just a little and peered at his wristwatch. Five minutes a little under that, to go. Reid's thumbnail tracked back up the sole of his left foot. It took a big chunk of control for him to stay still and quiet. The third, fourth, and fifth had him stifling whimpers.

Four minutes to go.

"Roll over please."

Morgan complied. _Whatever it is, it has to be easier than the foot thing._

Reid changed positions again. "Now," he said, "I'm going to bite your lip. Nod or shake your head: May I do that?"

Derek nodded.

Reid leaned in close, one hand on each side of Morgan's head. Derek wondered whether he should be pooching his lip out and decided against it.

"Don't move," Spencer breathed, his face a millimeter from Morgan's. Delicately, his teeth nipped at a portion of Morgan's lower lip, tugging just a bit. A tangle of his butterscotch hair fell against Morgan's eyelids. Morgan raised his right hand slowly, poised to bat at Reid if he did anything he didn't like – but so far he liked it just fine.

_Maybe it's more to grab him back if he tries to stop._

Holding Morgan's lip firmly between his teeth, Reid ran his tongue along the its surface. When he released the lip he breathed, "You taste pretty good, Morgan." Morgan felt him brush his (lemony-fresh) hair back again with a sound of annoyance. "Let's try that again. Just hold still--" He took even more of Derek's lip between his teeth, drawing it in by sucking on it. Morgan thought he heard him utter a sigh of satisfaction. Morgan was glad he wasn't the only one being turned on by this.

"Fleas," groaned Morgan, unable to form a **P** with one of his lips otherwise engaged.

"Any harder and I may leave marks," Reid warned through his teeth.

Morgan managed an _Eh_ kind of sound and shrugged his shoulders. "Fleas," he repeated.

Instead of being nipped harder, his lip was freed. For a moment he wondered whether he had pushed Brain-Boy too hard. Then he felt Reid stretching out beside him, his whole upper body hovering over Morgan's, and his hair hanging down in Morgan's face.

This time, Reid's teeth sank into his lip substantially. As his tongue explored Morgan's lip, Derek -- way past the point of game-playing -- seized Reid's shirtfront to keep him close. As Reid's tongue examined his lip, he stuck out his own tongue and tasted Reid's upper lip.

_Are you as hot as I am, Brain-Boy?_

Without letting go of Morgan's lip, Reid raised his left arm. He yanked his shirt out of Morgan's right hand, and laced those fingers with his own, pinning Morgan's forearm to the fleece. When he leaned over and transferred his weight there, Derek didn't even try to fight him for the left side. He just let it happen.

When both of Morgan's forearms were firmly pinned, Reid said, "Look at me!" against his mouth. "Open your eyes and look at me."

His face was so close that it was hard for Morgan to focus his eyes on it. His hair fell on either side of their faces like curtains – no, more like blinders. There was nothing else to see except what was directly in front of him. Nothing to feel but Reid's swollen crotch grinding against his own, and the boy had moves to rival any Moroccan belly-dancer.

However, so did Morgan. Before long, little beads of sweat stood out on Reid's face. Morgan saw his brow furrow as he fought for control, heard his soft gasps as he got closer, biting his own lips now. Morgan ground himself against the slight body above him, his rhythm matching Reid's perfectly. Spencer's eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled back in his head – _Yeah_.

Grateful at last to let go, Morgan gripped Reid's fingers fiercely as his orgasm surged through his body.

_Take that, Brain-Boy._

When he caught his breath and could open his eyes, Reid still hovered over him with a weird little smile on his face.

"Was it as good for you as it was for me?" Morgan asked with a grin.

Reid blinked. "Was what?" Gave a little start. "Oh you mean--" Again Reid's eyelids fluttered. Again his eyes rolled back. "Like that?"

"You sneaky little son of a bitch," Morgan growled. "Fucking faked me out. I came in my pants, you miserable asshole." He tried to look ferocious, but the laughter kept trying to tumble out. "Haven't done that since junior high."

Reid's face was bland. "Sorry, man. That was your punishment for grabbing my shirt."

"Jeez, you faked a goddamn orgasm. You're such a dog--"

"Coming from you, that's quite a recommendation." Reid smiled. "Feeling relaxed?"

"Well--"

"Yeah, right, here comes the big story from the big man--"

"Yes. I'm relaxed and it was kind of a rusdh. Gonna have to think about it for a time."

"That's OK."

Morgan sat up. "Only one thing I really want to know from you. What is that god-awful shampoo you're using?"

Reid thought a few seconds. "Oh, I ran out this morning so I grabbed the Ajax dish liquid. Had approximately the same ingredients."

"And a fresh lemony smell, " Morgan added.

"Yeah, I've been walking around all day with a deep-seated need to scrub pots and pans."

Morgan laid a heavy hand on Reid's shoulder. "Kid, I don't know whether I could ever go for this again, but I sure would enjoy exploring other avenues with you some time if you have the inclination."

Reid studied him seriously. "Yeah, that might be doable."


End file.
